


Static

by pluvia



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5334119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvia/pseuds/pluvia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ME2, Samara's loyalty mission. Shepard doesn't see the conclusion of the fight and the lines between identity, familiarity, and desire become blurred. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Static

_I lost her._  
  
"Shepard."  
  
_Lost her._  
  
"Shepard!"  
  
He snaps awake, the thought still fresh in his mind. It's not over, he remembers vaguely, and that is enough. Adrenaline surges and his N-school training takes over, the memories fueling his muscles, honing his instincts as he pushes himself up just enough so that one hand lashes towards the throat of the dark form near him. It is only when his consciousness returns a few moments too late that he sees the face of a familiar asari blankly staring back at him. Even with his fingers tightening around her neck she is still placid, gaze boring into his. She has never shown fear or emotion around him before— always an insurmountable wall. Her eyes are like he remembers, even as his nails dig into the smooth skin of her throat: calm, confident, fearless.  
  
Like a predator.  
  
Like Morinth.  
  
_"Like any predator, she is cautious."_  
  
"Oh god. Samara." His fingers fall slack and he feels his other arm give out, his body again meeting the floor with a thump. His body screams protest, alight with pain now, the collective impact of being tossed about by Samara and Morinth's biotics earlier and being forced awake just now finally reaching him. He lays his forearm over his eyes, trying to block out any unnecessary stimuli.  
  
"The deed is done." Her voice is unperturbed by the entire sequence of events. He senses her rise and walk away from him. In his mind's eye he knows her every movement now: he can picture her striding over to survey the room, assessing the situation, looking for something he may have missed.  
  
"I'm sorry, Samara," he manages, though knowing she will not give any significant response. This was no surprise to him: he knows it has been long, centuries since the justicar had companionship and possibly equally long since she has trusted anyone. He’s honored that she has sworn herself to him, but it is that same detached mystique that also draws him in. He visits her room at odd hours between the insanity of duty and she is always there, deep in meditation, the only constant in his hectic mission. Their conversations were generally courteous and unspecific, yet sometimes she would offer him something real: a small bit of her past, like a rare jewel, and he would treasure it just the same. He knows that his interest in her is no longer strictly professional but he can’t stop himself.  
  
It was why he had agreed to carry this mission out. All for her.  
  
To kill her own daughter.  
  
"It is all right," she replies vaguely. He takes a breath, feeling his thumping heart slow. Her voice alone soothes him, brings peace to his racing mind. With a grunt he sits up, shaking the stars out of his vision.  
  
"You may take the time you need, Shepard. I suspect the earlier commotion was not enough to draw the attention of anyone that dwells in a place such as this."  
  
Her disdain for Omega practically dripped from her voice, a bit more apparent than he remembers. He brushes the thought from his mind and takes in his surroundings. The apartment is a mess, furniture strewn every which way. A corpse lies at the far side of the room, gore splayed across in a cacophonous painting about the body. Samara is standing over it, a brooding shadow. His mind is still frazzled and unfortunately he doesn’t make the connection.  
  
"Who won?" he asks, the question out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

It is something he would regret forever, not holding his tongue. If only he had simply accepted everything as it was, that in the time he had been unconscious Samara had triumphed (as she should, of course she should) and had been keeping careful watch over him. If only he had done something as simple as not utter a word the mission, the nightmare would have been over.  
  
But he asks.  
  
And though he does not see her expression at that moment, he can sense, practically hear time pass longer than it should.  
  
"...I did, Shepard. It was... difficult." Her voice is strained.  
  
That pause.  
  
At any other time, in any other context, it would have meant nothing. He had asked her about the justicar’s code and romance in passing before, hoping to gauge his chances. There had been a brief silence then too- one of the longest she had ever graced him with during a conversation in fact- as she grappled over the question’s implication. So he knew that she could have those moments as well, moments when the tranquil flow of her words would ripple.  
  
But for some reason…  
  
"Oh Samara."  
  
That pause.  
  
He stands shakily and makes his way for her.  
  
That pause.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that—"  
  
_that pause what was that **pause**_  
  
At her side now, he is careful to keep just enough distance so her personal space is maintained. She gives him a sidelong glance, those icy eyes giving nothing away.  
  
“…I understand.” Her gaze falls back upon the body. “I would appreciate it if we did not have to linger here for much longer.”  
  
“Right,” he says evenly, his vision following hers. Indeed, it is Morinth’s body that lies at their feet; the tight, black, curve-hugging outfit is a bloodied painting, the remains of her head an indecipherable canvas of flesh.  
  
He’s used to seeing bodies. This is no different, and no worse, than what he has seen before. But it is eerie, he now realizes, how similar Morinth’s figure is to that of Samara’s in spite of their age difference. Shapely, lithe, the sort of thing that drew wanting stares from all.  
  
And he had been attracted to Morinth. Somewhat. That he could not deny. Though Samara had convinced him that he would only need to act the part, he had found himself growing into the role, voicing some of his own darker philosophies, things that had crossed his mind but his conscience had always pushed aside. And for the briefest of moments, when the two were on the couch of her apartment and Morinth’s warmth and words had flooded him, when her chilling ocean-blue eyes had linked with his—  
  
_"Look into my eyes and tell me you want me.”_  
  
“Shepard?”  
  
_“Tell me that you'd kill for me—”_  
  
Those chilling ocean-blue eyes link again with his.  
  
“Is there anything else that needs to be done, Shepard?”

Concentration is a frightening thing. There are moments in battle when awareness can spike and the details of the entire battlefield can race out in front of his eyes. Those moments were reserved for times of danger, he had always believed.  
  
But suddenly he is suddenly far too aware of his own fragility. He’s on lawless Omega, in a luxurious but nonetheless low-profile apartment. Next to him is not only an asari biotic, but a justicar ( _“or a psychotic murderer, if the coldness in your blood is to be believed. Or is there a difference between them?” his mind taunts_ ) that has fought for centuries.  
  
And he is _unarmed._  
  
A stray piece of glass from the cracked window shatters onto the floor, a dying crackle. It takes every single fiber of his being to not scream.  
  
“How long was I out?” He is careful to avoid looking into those eyes again, the ones he thought he could drown himself in. Perhaps he already has.  
  
He can sense her studying him, watching his reactions. Out of concern for him? Or to see when she might have to—  
  
“Not long,” she replied. “I apologize, but I wasn’t able to—”  
  
“Just give me your best guess.”  
  
“The fight was not an easy one. She was strong and desperate. I lost all track of time. I can only say that you awoke shortly thereafter.”  
  
“So you don’t know how long.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Shepard.”  
  
He abruptly stoops to a squatting position and reaches for the corpse. Her fingers close around his wrist just as quickly, before he gets an opportunity to inspect the body further.  
  
“What are you doing?” If there is horror to be detected in her voice, he can’t hear it. That calm, that infuriating calm she has—  
  
He still can’t meet her gaze, to see if there was any shock there.  
  
”Just… thought I saw something.” Even he isn’t sure what he was expecting to find. An unexplainable bloodstain on the clothing? What did he know about either Samara or Morinth that would let him clearly differentiate the two?  
  
Her hand is still around his wrist, but now the grip has slackened. It is rare that they shared any physical contact outside of battle. Her touch is warm, just like he remembers; but so was Morinth’s, and he isn’t sure what frightens him all the more— that he might never forget her, or that he would never be able to tell the difference.  
  
“I’m sorry, Samara. Let’s go.” He rises and advances away from the body, weary with exhaustion. Her hand falls away and she falls easily in step behind him, as she always has. He wants to forget this place, forget her, forget these doubts.  
  
But Morinth had to have found a way off Thessia, didn’t she? Wouldn’t it have been logical for her to be able to emulate her mother, just enough?  
  
Most of Morinth’s possessions are scattered about the floor. Only one of the tables had not been overturned in the fight and he is quick to recognize it. He freezes.  
  
The Hallex that had been sitting there was gone.  
  
_“I love any game where your opponent can believe he is about to win… just before you kill him.”_  
  
"Is something bothering you, Shepard?"  
  
There is no emotion in her voice. The words from her sound dead. Dead.  
  
_I lost her._  
  
"...No. It's fine."  
  
-End-


End file.
